Perfectly Imperfect
These plates and bowls are perfectly imperfect, the scratches and dents, show the markings of a previous life. A life that was rich and well loved. An homage of sorts to all the cooks of this world, for the everyday routine.
They bring memories of baked apples stuffed with sultanas, egg and bacon pies, jam tarts made with homegrown strawberries, and apple pies along with nana’s apron, covered in flour. The delicious smell of a roast in the oven and a steamed pudding gently simmering on mum’s stove as we came home from school, rich aromas filling the air. The ice cream made with sunshine milk powder, ever so slowly setting in the old kerosene fridge. Fish from tins, an important staple of an inland existence. The rusted tins, a marker of time and the struggle of an era gone by. A gentle reminder of sorts, that one day, we too will perish and all that what will be left is memories.
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